


Winter Blues

by InsubstantialScribblings



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Hayffie, Post-Mockingjay, Sentimental
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 14:26:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18523396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsubstantialScribblings/pseuds/InsubstantialScribblings
Summary: Effie has never regretted her decision to live in Twelve with Haymitch. So why does she suddenly feel so melancholy?





	Winter Blues

**Author's Note:**

> nothing new, just a repost of something I previously deleted. Please note the following disclaimer which has become necessary following a reader complaint:
> 
> 'Characters in my stories may express thoughts and opinions which are not necessarily the "correct" or most socially, medically or morally acceptable ones. Neither are these necessarily my own opinions. If you are looking to be advised on any topic, that is not what I am offering.'

WINTER BLUES

 

She stares from the window at the fat snowflakes falling onto the green of Victors’ Village.

They’ve been coming down for days now, over a week, she thinks, blanketing everything with a thick carpet of pure, glistening white. It’s beautiful and it ought to lift her mood, but it doesn’t. This pretty spectacle has been the very thing to open the door to the desolation that has been creeping in, slowly but surely, for too long.

It’s been a surprise, this ache inside her. She’s so happy here, she really is. She’s been here over a year and she’s bloomed. She’s left behind that shell of a person Haymitch brought home from the clinic - she’s married now; has a responsible government job here in Twelve; people like her against all the odds.

She doesn’t want to go back to the Capitol. Not ever. Haymitch needs reassuring sometimes so she tells him and she means it. She shouldn’t be feeling melancholy. And yet she is.

Haymitch knows something is wrong. She’s quiet and that’s not right. She has no appetite and she sees his frown as she picks at the meals he brings her. She hasn’t been for dinner with the children since last weekend, though Haymitch still attends nightly. She tells him she’s too tired. It isn’t a lie. She’s exhausted and spends more and more time in bed, but sleep doesn’t dispel the feeling or refresh her.

They haven’t made love since she’s been feeling like this; they’ve barely kissed. He tried just now, before he left for the children’s place, and she wanted to let him but, at the last minute, she found herself turning to present him with her cheek instead of her lips. She tried not to see the hurt in his eyes. He hasn’t mentioned it, but she knows the disconnection between them bothers him. It bothers her too, but she doesn’t know how to fix it. She worries he thinks she’s stopped loving him. She hasn’t. She can’t, not ever. It’s just that the empty sensation inside her won’t let her reach out for his warmth and comfort. It doesn’t make sense; she knows that.

She can’t tell him. She can’t tell Katniss or Peeta or anyone here. She’s too ashamed.

The four of them all relapse from time to time, of course. They all feel that bleak, black blanket of despair descending at times; they all help each other to come back from it. But not this time. She can’t ask them to help her now. How can she tell them she feels this way because of _Christmas_?

It’s so trivial, she knows it. They won’t understand and rightly so.

They don’t celebrate Christmas in the districts. She doesn’t think they ever have. One and Two perhaps, once upon a time, but nowhere further out, certainly not Twelve. She’s not even sure _what_ they were celebrating in the Capitol, to be honest; it’s just a winter festival, an excuse for parties and excess. Her grandfather told her once that it was part of an ancient religion that predated Panem by centuries, that the religion had hijacked it from an older festival that commemorated the winter solstice – giving thanks for the days becoming longer again, for the return of the sunlight. She never thought too much about that; she just knew that she loved it.

She feels guilty for missing most of the things she loved. The strings of bright lights that twinkled everywhere. The transformation of her home into a winter wonderland – the decorations, the thrill of the arrival of the tree, staying up late to trim it with the box of carefully preserved ornaments from the attic. Ice skating in the main squares of the city, warming up with hot chocolate and sweet waffles afterwards as a girl, with mulled wine later on.

The trace of a smile passes over her lips when she remembers the mulled wine. It makes her think of Haymitch. He’d been in the Capitol for Christmas a few times, back in the Games, those years when he’d been summoned to the city for the Victory Tour Ball and the dates had coincided. He hadn’t cared for the Christmas pastimes or the decorations or the merriment, but he’d liked the drinks. He’d _loved_ mulled wine.

She’d loved the feasting. The mouth-watering aromas… Christmas Eve and Christmas Day - she’d always let herself have those two days free of worry about her figure. Even her mother had laid off her usual barbed comments. Roast turkey, goose, beef, a large ham. All the accompaniments you could think of. A fruit pie or pudding afterwards. All those fancy cakes and pastries, heavy on spices; cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves permeating the air wherever you went.

 She’d loved those days with her family. They’d never been close and rare time spent together was invariably awkward. She’d always felt on edge, always sensed an undercurrent of disapproval she wasn’t sure was real or imagined. But not at Christmas. Christmas was a time to put aside differences, to rejoice with those dearest to you. Those were the times she’d felt like a real daughter, not a burden, not a disappointment. And she can never have that again. Those people are gone now: her grandparents long ago and her mother some years before the war, her father soon after. No trace of the Trinket family remains and she can never get that Christmas feeling back.

She can’t voice her sadness over these things that are now gone and lost to her. How could she complain to Haymitch, to any of them, of such trivialities? To them, who have suffered their whole lives at the hands of her people; to them, whose families have been _murdered_ by Capitols like her; to them, who had been too enslaved, too starved to even dream of the frivolities and delicious decadence for which she is now so nostalgic.

She turns from the picturesque scene outside and draws the curtain across to obliterate it from her view. It will be Christmas Eve tomorrow, but it’s just another date to everyone here. She wants to sleep now, to shut it all out. There’s no need to undress - she’s been in her nightclothes all day. She hopes to be asleep before Haymitch returns, can’t bear to see the disappointment on his face at her lack of response to his touch, at the sight of the vacant expression she knows lives behind her eyes. 

She gets her wish.

 

xXxXxXx

 

It’s the scent that hits her. She thinks she must be dreaming at first because it’s not a smell she associates with Twelve but, when her eyes open, she sees she’s in their bed in Haymitch’s house as usual. Haymitch isn’t there now, but he must have been because his side of the bed is rumpled and still vaguely warm.

The scent is coming from her nightstand and she tracks it with both her nose and her eyes. A mug sits beside her and she can tell at once that it isn’t her usual tea. She can smell the sweetness of the chocolate and it’s beautiful. The mug is topped with fluffy cream and marshmallow pieces and just the lightest dusting of cinnamon. Next to it is an exquisite cupcake with perfect gingerbread frosting. These were her very favourite festive cakes in the Capitol and she can’t understand how this one is here. The frosting is sprinkled with tiny sugarpaste gingerbread men and miniature snowballs and it’s Peeta’s work certainly, it has his mark all over it, but she’s confused. She helps at the bakery often enough to know that this has never featured before in his repertoire. It speaks to her though – it’s the first thing that has tempted her in nearly a week and she reaches for it and takes a bite. Ginger and nutmeg and sugar flood her mouth and it’s divine. Before she knows it, she’s finished the whole thing and the mug is empty too.

On impulse she decides to run a bath. There have been too many days of perfunctory showers. She makes it deep and adds bubbles with a pine fragrance. They complement the lingering spices perfectly.

She dresses after a long soak and for once she doesn’t choose pyjamas or shapeless yoga pants and a too-big sweater. She finds a red silk dress and it’s too fancy for everyday wear in Twelve really, but it’s calling to her and she really wants to put it on, so she does. She even applies a little makeup and styles her hair. She feels foolish afterwards. Hot chocolate and gingerbread cupcakes don’t mean it’s Christmas. They won’t bring her family back or her memories to life.

She doesn’t have time to dwell any longer because there is a commotion from downstairs. The front door bangs back on its hinges and furniture is disturbed. She hears Haymitch curse and Katniss’s voice is there too, she thinks; she’s sure it’s her that says “Trees, indoors? You’d better be right about this.”

Her earlier energy is beginning to wane now, but still curiosity gets the better of her eventually and she creeps downstairs to the living room to find Haymitch and Katniss hauling a large spruce into place by the big window.  They don’t notice her for a few minutes and, when they do, there is an awkward silence and she doesn’t miss Haymitch’s questioning gaze. She isn’t sure what’s happening, doesn’t know how to respond, but suddenly Peeta is there and he’s pushing a glass mug into her hand and kissing her on the cheek.

“Season’s Greetings,” he says, and his smile is wide and he’s holding a glass too which he clinks gently against hers. She knows at once that it’s mulled wine and even though it’s a little early in the day for alcohol she takes a sip and it’s as wonderful as she remembers – sweet and fruity and aromatic and instantly warming to her insides. Katniss and Haymitch have glasses now too and they raise them in her direction. Haymitch nods towards an object on the coffee table.

“We thought you should decorate since you’re the one with the sense of style.”

She looks down and knows that someone has been in the attic because that’s her grandmother’s decoration box and she hasn’t seen it in six months, not since she sold her apartment and had her things shipped here. She hasn’t opened it in much longer than that. She’s not sure she wants to at first, but the mulled wine is soothing and Peeta regales her with a funny story of Katniss and Haymitch bickering over the best way to cut down a tree and she hears laughter and she’s surprised to realise that some of it is hers.

The tree is decorated slowly over the next few hours and the rest of the house along with it. Peeta helps her and Katniss and Haymitch criticise but it’s in good sport and it’s lovely.

She’s stunned when Haymitch produces a guitar and begins to play. She knows it was meant to be his talent after his Games, but she’s never seen him touch an instrument, much less heard him play one, and she’d always assumed it was a talent that never took. She recognises the festive tunes, even more so when Katniss’s clear voice rises up to sing along. They’re both very good and she can tell they’ve been practising. She knows Haymitch must have sent away to the Capitol for the music and tears blur her sight, but they’re the good kind.

When the decorations are completely finished, Peeta attaches his camera to a tripod and sets the timer and the four of them pose in front of the tree. They fool around and make silly faces and it takes an age to get a good shot, but no-one minds, not even Katniss.

A meal arrives in the shape of a buffet prepared by Peeta. There are familiar things and new things together, but everything is delicious and she can’t remember food tasting this good in a long time.

When she goes up to the bedroom that evening, there are two new sets of pyjamas on the pillows. They’re both thick flannel, but hers are a rich red tartan with snowflakes stitched onto the collars while Haymitch’s are a forest green with mistletoe embroidery. She giggles because they’re not the sort of thing either of them would usually wear and because Haymitch is _really_ _not_ a matching pyjamas kind of guy, but he’s done this for her and it makes her heart feel bigger than usual in her chest.

She reaches for him in bed that night, pulls his muscular frame over her slim one. “You have to kiss under the mistletoe,” she informs him solemnly and so they do and it’s blissful. She’s missed him too much. The festive nightwear is discarded and they melt into each other like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and he’s not the only thing that swells inside her when she comes.

She wakes in the night and there’s still an energy and an arousal coursing through her veins that have been missing of late. It’s not hard to rouse him again once she’s straddled him, and she whispers those three words he used to hate hearing against his ear. He embraces her so tightly she briefly wonders if she’ll break and she hears the three words repeated back to her not long after, when she’s riding him and his fingers are gripping her hips, leaving behind little red marks of affirmation.

 

xXxXxXx

 

She’s disappointed when she wakes in the morning and sees that he’s gone, but she’s cheered by the realisation that the hot chocolate is back. There’s no cupcake this time, but instead an enormous light and airy sweet bread, shaped like a huge star and dusted with powdered sugar. She remembers this, though not its name; it’s from a language no-one speaks anymore. She tears a piece off and dips it into her drink.

Like yesterday, it gives her the impetus to get up and ready for the day and she’s just dressed in thick wool tights and a short velvet skirt and sequined sweater when Katniss’s voice calls to her from the foot of the stairs.  She needs her help, the girl explains. Something in the woods. Haymitch is helping Peeta fix something at the bakery so it has to be her. Effie can’t say no to those big grey eyes that are so like those of the man she loves. Not today.

It’s nice being outside again. She’s wrapped up warm and the snow has stopped falling, though it lies thickly everywhere. The sky is a vivid blue today and the sun is glinting off the banks of snow in silvery sparkles.

She’s not sure what they’re doing. Katniss has her bow and a sack and a big, heavy-looking bag, but it’s not her usual game bag. 

They head into the forest and she realises they’re on a path she hasn’t trodden since the hot summer they had this year. It’s the path to the lake. She’s briefly daunted because she still fears the bears and wild dogs that live deep inside the woods, but she trusts the girl’s ability to defend her against danger with her bow and arrows and, besides, the path is so pretty. The forest makes a better winter wonderland than anywhere in the city ever did.

The pine trees hunch forward under their snowy burden like so many fur-cloaked sages; the tallest among their naked cousins point prophetically skyward with their silver-frosted fingers. Holly is growing abundantly, with red berries everywhere. An idea for more decorations comes to her and she asks Katniss if they can stop and cut some to take home. The girl doesn’t mind and they collect some attractive boughs to place in the sack and she picks up fallen twigs and pine cones along the way too. When she spots real mistletoe and points it out, Katniss insists on climbing the tree to get it down for her.

She thinks it’s later than the girl planned by the time they arrive at the lake. It’s stunning here - the trees that encircle the water dripping with lengthy icicles that are ornaments worthy of a snow palace - but it’s frozen solid, useless for fishing, and she’s still not sure what they’re doing here until Katniss opens the big bag and pulls out two pairs of skates. She recognises her own at once, like old friends. They must have been in the trunk of belongings with the decorations. Katniss’s skates are newer and have been sent by Cressida, the girl tells her. She’ll have to teach her because she’s never skated before.

Katniss is a natural; she’s so steady and agile on her feet that soon she’s not hanging onto her at all anymore. She makes sure she’s ok and then spins off on her own a little, trying out some of the leaps and pirouettes she used to show off to her friends with. She’s not as young as she used to be, but it comes back to her pretty quickly and she practises for what must be ages, cheeks flushed pink, and then has races with the girl. She’s faster, but Katniss is powerful and that girl is a born victor, so winning is no easy task and they skate the length of the lake again and again with shrieks of exhilaration, occasionally crashing down in a heap of tangled limbs and laughter, until Katniss tells her they should head back if they’re to make it to the meadow before darkness falls.

They pack up and head off, but the trip isn’t arduous because Katniss has packed provisions. They snack on sugared waffles as they walk, and it doesn’t matter one bit that they’re cold, and then Katniss shyly hands over a flask and tells her it’s something Venia assures her was a favourite. She sips it inquisitively and discovers it’s the ridiculously-named eggnog – the best of all the festive cocktails, in her opinion. She insists the girl try it too and she does, but since she doesn’t usually drink, she’s pretty giggly by the time they approach the village. It’s a lovely sound.

She stops to stare as they reach home. The iron gates and the fountain are festooned with twinkling white lights and it looks just magical. She knows Haymitch is responsible and she wants to find him and tell him how much she loves it, but Katniss insists he won’t be home yet and persuades her to come back with her. She doesn’t ever spend much time alone with the girl and she welcomes the female company, so she goes willingly and they work with the pieces they’ve gathered and a couple of wire coat hangers and some twine, fashioning a pair of rustic Christmas wreaths. She does most of the work because Katniss is decidedly tipsy, but it doesn’t matter. It’s companionable and fun and the girl seems more relaxed with her than ever before.

Eventually, they hang the first wreath on the kids’ front door and it’s a bit lopsided, but she decides the imperfection is what makes it perfect and they cross the green to hang its partner on the entrance to her own house.

There are voices coming from inside and they exchange glances and continue on into the house. She feels her mouth watering before she even realises she’s hungry. The dining room table is laden with a large and succulent roast goose (she won’t think about where that’s come from right now), at least ten different vegetables, and various side dishes and sauces. Peeta’s touch and, no doubt, the advice of the best Capitol chefs he knows are everywhere. Haymitch’s best glasses and china and solid silver cutlery are gleaming from the four place settings - tableware she had no idea existed, despite living here for more than a year. The man himself steps forward, a little shyly, she thinks.

“Merry Christmas, Sweetheart,” he tells her and, when she smiles, he crosses the gap between them and folds her into his arms. She brings out the sprig of mistletoe she’s been hiding in her palm then and holds it up. He smirks and kisses her and it’s not an innocent one. The children groan and tell them to get a room already and she laughs as they break apart and take their seats around the table.

Her heart feels fit to burst when she thinks about the labour of love that has gone into producing these two days – the hours they’ve spent, the research they must have done, the favours they’ve surely called in. She realises how much of this has come from Haymitch’s own memories of what she once loved, things she once told him, and perhaps that’s the very best thing of all.

She doesn’t know now how she could have felt so wretched just two short days ago. It’s all right to mourn her parents, she realises. At least she has those memories to look back on, and Christmas itself is still here and it’s still beautiful – the perfect opportunity to make new ones. They’re celebrating the old way, marking the shrinking of the darkness, the coming of the light.

Her family hasn’t gone at all and she’s not sure why she’s been so slow to catch on. She still has a family; it’s just morphed into a different incarnation. She might not be a daughter anymore, but she has a husband and two grown children and between them they are perceptive and generous and patient and understanding and loving and kind. They’re the best anyone could ever wish for, whatever the time of year.

She can’t wait for next Christmas.


End file.
